


A capriccio

by ChibiStarr



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, or ingwe for that matter, there isn't enough manwe in the world, two beautiful kings being lovely together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 14:51:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16221362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiStarr/pseuds/ChibiStarr
Summary: A simple conversation between the two Kings, which leads into something far more pleasant later.





	A capriccio

**Author's Note:**

> _A capriccio_ \- a term in music indicating a light and free approach to the tempo; to perform at whatever tempo and with whatever expression the performer likes.

Manwë had seen the creation of the world. He had played quite a substantial part in the act, even. He had seen the creation of the Lamps and their fall, the birth of the Trees, the first rain and the first snow. Every day he watched the lights bathe the sides of his beloved Taniquetil in silver and gold, each one clothing his palace in its own special type of majesty.

And yet, despite all of that, none of it was quite like the radiance of the Elda before him.

It was not hard at all to see why Ingwë was High King of all elves; Manwë was sure that even if one had never laid eyes on him before they would see it instantly. His beauty was utterly beyond compare among the Eldar, skin like marble and just as smooth, touched ever so faintly by pale rose-tinted color where it was thinnest, a sign of the blood flowing through his veins that Manwë could never perfectly replicate no matter how hard he tried. His hair was everything the Vanyar could hope for, honey gold locks that fell to his knees in the most graceful and gentle of sweeping curves, even though now it was half-pinned into an elaborate, spiralling set of braids along his head that left the rest to drape over his elbows. The light of Laurelin filtered through the high windows and coated every gleaming strand in shimmering, radiant gold tones. 

So bathed in glory, Ingwë looked as if he had his own aura of light around him, like one of the Ainur. He seemed to take the light around him and reflect it back threefold, so ethereal in his beauty. Manwë found himself nearly struck down by the sight. 

Then the subject of his staring suddenly moved, breaking the moment of silence that had fallen upon the King of the Valar, and looked at him with brilliant blue eyes. “Is something the matter, my lord?” his melodious voice asked, the notes so soft that the silence felt hardly broken. 

And yet it took all of Manwë’s effort not to start in surprise and he covered his initial embarrassment behind a gentle, sweet smile. “Not at all, King Ingwë,” he said, straightening himself a little. Thankfully he did not blush like one of the Children, but the feathers on his neck did start to lift and he hoped that Ingwë would not notice. “Forgive me, my mind sometimes wanders aimlessly like the clouds in the sky.” 

A pleasant smile graced Ingwë’s lips, all at once changing the shape of his face into a form most fair, like the drawing back of a curtain that lets the light of day inside a previously dim room. “With all due respect, my Lord,” he began, his praise as sincere as ever yet there are playful notes that teased his words, “since you create the winds that the clouds ride upon, I would dare venture that their wanderings are not even half as aimless as you claim.” 

Ah! So sweet in his words, and yet so brilliantly bold like all the Eldar! Like drinking a glass of the clearest mountain water, the radiance and purity so stunning that every thread in his body  _sang_  in response to it. Manwë could not suppress his delight and a chuckle passed his lips, trilling sweetly around them like the trills of a rare songbird. So great was his mirth that he missed the awe that passed across Ingwë’s face, gone as quickly as it came while the elf stared unabashedly at the Elder King. “I will forgive your words because you simply do not know better,” Manwë said at last as he paused for breath. “I make and guide the paths of the winds, but that does not mean I control every movement. As you might swirl the tea in your cup now, you create the pattern it follows, but the tiniest flow is still left for the tea itself to govern. Do I make sense to you?”

Ingwë glanced at the cup sitting in its saucer, forgotten due to the turn their conversation had taken. “Perfectly, my lord,” he replied, hiding his chagrin by bringing the cup to his lips to sip from it. 

Even such a small movement as that had Manwë staring again. Not only from the grace that colored Ingwë’s every gesture, but from the cup itself. It was made from porcelain, painted all over with patterns of flowers, yet it was so thin and delicate that he could see Laurelin’s light passing right through it, giving the flowers a radiance of their own as they were lit from behind. All of the Eldar had their set of skills they loved and were talented in, and the Noldor, for all their love of crafts and creating things with their hands, could not ever hope to match the delicate precision required to make the art of porcelain like the Vanyar. The Noldor adored their gems and metals, but they were works that required a heavy hand and determination, perfect for their fiery tempers. But creations of a most fragile nature, like Ingwë’s tea set, blown glass, painting, poetry, those were far better suited for the endless patience of the Vanyar.

He  _really_ needed to stop doing that, he thought to himself with a jolt as he caught himself staring again Thankfully, though, Ingwë seemed to be too preoccupied with setting his cup down properly to notice. Manwë softened seeing his expression and he reached out a hand to reassure him, brushing against his sleeve with only the lightest touch of his fingertips, yet it was enough to make Ingwë freeze completely, his head moving a fraction as he looked at Manwë.

“Do not be so morose, I do not scold you,” Manwë said, letting his voice dip into soft, deeper tones of reassurance that layered the room with a warmth that would have been hard to place had one not known the King well. “I only seek to further your understanding and give such explanations freely, so that you may know the ways of the world better.”

“Oh of course, Elder King!” Ingwë replied, his eyes suddenly widening in his response, pale and as endless as the sky itself. Manwë fancied he could drink from them if he so wished, to dip his ëala into their bottomless blue shades and caress the threads of the Music with his fingertips if he tried hard enough. “I did not take any such offense or hurt at all! Perish the thought.” 

Ah but instead of reassuring, it seemed that Manwë’s words had done the exact opposite. Ingwë’s shock and sadness were like thorns piercing his heart and he soothed the elf again, this time letting his touch become more firm on his arm, gliding over the embroidered silk like wind over water. “Do not be so hurt, my dear one,” he said, “I did not mean to assume anything with my words.”

“Your Majesty—“ 

“Please, King Ingwë, with you it is just Manwë.” 

Ingwë had never looked entirely comfortable with the suggestion. Like all of the Vanyar he venerated the Valar too much to lower them to such simple, informal terms of address. Yet he always relented, and Manwë could see once he had gotten used to it the practice became easier for him. “Manwë,” he said, almost stumbling over the name in his disuse, “I would never for a moment think that you would be stern enough to lecture the Eldar on anything, even if we make a most grievous error on a subject and wound with ill-placed words. My heart is merely beset by my own ignorance, and how easily I assume I know something about you, even the simplest of thing, when it is clear I do not.” 

There! There it was, the true core of his hurt, the one which all others pains were merely a symptom of. Manwë smiled and in a moment he was rising out of his chair as gracefully as the clouds that rolled along the peaks of the mountains in the early mornings of Aman. “Dearest Ingwë,” he murmured standing next to the seated king and letting his wandering touch glide up a shoulder, to the curve of his neck, so smooth and devoid of feathers. The king shivered a little, but said nothing, merely tilting his head to look up at the Vala. “Do not set such a grief upon yourself, I beg. The only thing which hurts you here is yourself. Does a student lament over every bit of knowledge his teacher bestows upon him, berating himself for not knowing such a thing sooner? Nay, he understands the gift that is given, and knows he is more enlightened for receiving it.” 

There was a sigh that passed through the elf’s lips and carefully, as if such an action would cause reproach, Ingwë raised his hand free hand up to Manwë’s, delicately sliding his fingers around it until he took the Elder King’s hand in his own. Then he turned his head and placed his reverent lips upon the hand, right next to the glittering silver and sapphire ring that rested upon his finger. 

Manwë gasped softly, and a gentle breath of wind blew through the open windows to caress the air around them, teasing their hair and robe with invisible fingers. Oh, the Eldar always felt so pleasantly warm to the touch. He could never understand it, as cold and chilled as he was in the clouds and the labyrinths of airs, but with Ingwë grasping his hand like that he could feel the first inklings of his own enlightenment blooming in his mind. 

“Of course, Highest One,” the object of his desire murmured, using the title that the Ainur did when addressing their King. Yet it never sounded more pleasant than when falling from his lips. “And I am more grateful than words can properly express for each bit of knowledge you bless me with every day, and I apologize for my silliness.”

A sigh of bliss left Manwë’s lips and his eyes fluttered at the sensation of Ingwë speaking against his skin, and it was an effort to pull his mind away from the feeling. He would drift away and get lost within it if he did not. “Dearest, loveliest Ingwë,” he whispered, tugging the Vanya’s hand until he understood what the King was trying to do and got to his feet. Manwë’s hand was still resting near his neck and it was the simplest thing in the world to put a finger under his chin and tilt his up until the blue fires of their eyes matched. “You apologize too much.” 

Then he bent down and kissed him. It was such a beautiful, encompassing sensation, one the Vala never tired of and the only thing that could possibly make it better was the way Ingwë gasped when their lips met. But then he was kissing back, clinging to him desperately, wanting to take it all in as if this would be the only kiss he would ever receive in his lifetime— 

Ah but what a foolish idea that was, if that’s what he was thinking. Manwë was nothing if not giving. If Ingwë wanted a thousand more kisses, ten of thousands, if he wanted to lay in Manwë’s arms and be kissed for the rest of his life then Manwë would give it. Between ruling Arda, Varda, and the other Valar of course.

He felt laughter against his lips, a sound of delight that sent his spirit soaring into the highest vaults of the heavens. Ingwë’s expression was radiant as broke away he gazed up at him, so beautiful it nearly hurt, but his mouth was curved into a small, teasing smile. “Forgive me then, my lord, for apologizing too much,” he said, his words full of mirth. 

Ha! So bold, so playful! He could not even form a proper reply or anything even related to a scolding, he just laughed and pulled him close to kiss him once more, unable to get enough. Manwë let his hands wander through the dazzling golden hair and shivered when two arms were thrown around his neck in return, the touch infinitely careful to avoid pulling his feathers. He could hear Ingwë’s deep, frantic breathing against his skin as their kiss went on, robbing him of the air in his lungs, yet bliss and light and joy tangled between them, dancing in the air and teasing both fëa and ëala in their mingling.

His fingers were tangled in the complicated golden robes just as tightly.  _Do not leave,_ he thought, pressing the elf closer until their bodies were against one another.  _You do not need to breathe. I will be your breath. I_ created  _breathing._

He heard a soft chuckle and wondered if Ingwë had heard it, then realized he most likely did.  _:I would never leave you, even for the end of Arda, my King,:_ Ingwë whispered back, his blooming, Treelit mind brushing Manwë’s own as their kisses dragged on and on, until it felt as if the world truly would come crashing down around their heads before they finished. 

The tea was entirely forgotten as they stumbled out, and would be ice-cold by the time they came back from Manwë’s room’s. Not that either of them would be bothered by it in the first place, for what could compare to the taste of the Elder King and the moans of the High King of the Eldar echoing throughout Taniquetil?


End file.
